Trell admitted the men’s reward was overdue, yet he couldn’t share in their joy. For him, it had been a bitter victory, and every day spent overlooking the Cry was a reminder of how much he’d lost to gain it.
As celebration broke out around them, Raegus noted Trell’s somber expression and clapped a hand to his shoulder. “Graeme Caufeld was a fine soldier and a good friend to all of the Converted,” he said in confidence. “The Emir wishes to honor Graeme’s memory as much as he plans to honor you and your men. We could not have gained Raku if not for your efforts, Trell of the Tides, and the Emir was the first to recognize you for this.”
Trell knew the man was sincere, but mere words could not relieve his guilt, nor honors replace his friend. “Come, Raegus,” Trell said in his quiet way, turning his eyes away from the other man lest he read too much in his gaze. “I will show you the camp.”
Trell led the way up the ridge, pointing out supply tents and strategic positions, until eventually they arrived at the Overlook—a carefully concealed bunker with an expansive view of the Cry as well as the Veneisean camp on the opposite riverbank. Safely ensconced beneath the overhanging rock, Trell informed Raegus of the lay of things. “Archers are there, there, and there,” Trell told the other commander, who was Converted and wore his characteristic white turban wound through with stripes of tan. Trell pointed to small mounds on the far side of the gorge as he indicated the lairs of the Veneisean archers, who lay in wait like sand snakes, hoping to spy an incautious and unprotected head.
“I see the bulk of the army has retreated,” Raegus observed.
“Yes, they’ve pulled back about two klicks downriver to a valley with its own water supply.”
Raegus turned him a grin full of dark amusement. “I take it the river has claimed a few Veneiseans, some perhaps who strayed too deeply?”
“More than a few,” Trell remarked without removing his eyes from the gorge and the archers. Knowledge of where an enemy was supposed to be didn’t mean he stayed there, and Trell had kept his men alive by teaching habits of constant vigilance, which he was the first to live by.
Raegus turned to lean against the rock wall, his back to the river, crossing arms before his chest. Trell noted his nonchalance and wondered how long he’d last there at the farthest edge of Akkad-held lands; the river and its enveloping gorge had a way of claiming men who lacked the appropriate respect.
As it happened, so did Veneisean archers.
Raegus meanwhile settled Trell a curious, and perhaps slightly challenging, look. “The Emir told me the Veneiseans are rebuilding the bridges at Orlan and Fayle, but I noticed that your entire company remains here. Are you not concerned?”
Trell was gazing down at the frothing, ashen waters of the Cry wondering how many lives they’d claimed, though only one truly mattered to him. He exhaled wearily, his mind only half-engaged with the conversation. “This war will be over before the Veneiseans succeed in crossing the Cry, Commander, much less in building a bridge to aid them in the endeavor. It took Akkadian engineers a decade to successfully span those waters—learning as they did through trial and error—and rest you assured, the Veneiseans haven’t the trick of it.”
Trell turned away from the rushing river then and the body of his friend lost in its depths. He motioned Raegus back toward camp. “No, Commander, this gorge is the only place the Veneiseans stand a chance of crossing the Cry, and we—you,” he corrected absently, “…you and your men have that duty now.”
Respect colored the Commander’s gaze as he watched Trell descend from the shaded protection of the overlook, zipping down a rough-hewn ladder with spry agility. He said nothing as they headed single-file down the hazardous escarpment, but before they regained the camp, he took Trell’s arm in a sudden firm grip. “The Emir says you were a gift from the gods, Trell of the Tides,” he observed as if a gruff confession, holding Trell’s grey-eyed gaze with his own darkly serious one, their faces inches apart. “I think I understand why.”
Trell shook his head and looked away, wanting no more undue praise for a battle he considered, ultimately, a failure. “Good luck, Commander,” he said, pressing fist to heart one last time. And with a final glance, he added, “We are all depending on you now.”
They’d set off that afternoon, with the men in an enduring cheerful humor. All the way to Raku Oasis, they boasted and bragged, reminisced and jested; what had once been painful memories were quickly fading, transitioning from a place of close discomfort into a distant one laced with nostalgia. Such was the mind’s capacity for change, for adaptation and reconciliation, and even for forgiveness; to alter a man’s memories such that what was once overwhelming became later subject to rejection, to laughter.
Trell thought it an amazing thing to witness; though he couldn’t help but wonder if this was the same mechanism—this altering factor of the mind—that kept him from remembering his own past. Yet if the mind was capable of healing emotion such that the common man may eventually recall a few battles fondly, what could’ve so wounded him that he was unable to remember anything at all of his former life even now, five years later?
Catching himself at his own thoughts, Trell admitted that this was his philosophic side, the one his men jested about, the one Ware so often commented upon…and the one Graeme had always held up as proof he was noble-born. This was the side of him that took over after a battle.
This was the side that asked endlessly, Who are you?
Trell knew he sought shelter in his thoughts when no shelter could be found elsewhere. He could vanish into them so completely that the outside world seemed insubstantial in comparison, and hours might pass before he returned to it. Such was the rare luxury he allowed himself during the ride back to Raku; indeed, his company was riding beneath the thick walls of the oasis before he woke from his thoughts, woke to the cheering of a thronging crowd.
From the battlements on high, ranks of Converted threw raucous kisses and olive twigs in good-natured mockery of the traditional rose, while the soldiers inside the city spread sand before their path, bowing and taunting as much as they applauded or cheered. Men that Trell had never met shouted his name as he rode.
The Converted were a motley band of renegades. They hailed from places as dissimilar as Dheanainn and Kjvngherad, yet a common element bound them, one that transcended background or heritage, crime or treason, and this same element in turn bound them to the Emir.
For the Emir had given them back their honor, and more. He’d placed them on equal footing, to advance not according to birthright but to ability, to gain in reward of strength and agility proven on the field of battle.
Trell wasn’t one of them, for he’d sworn no oaths to the pantheon of desert gods, yet the Converted considered him a brother in war. His past was lost, even as theirs was lost—if one was by design and the other through tragedy, it mattered little to these men, and Trell had proven himself time and again, gaining the loyalty and admiration even of those who’d heard only his name.
Knowing all of this, Trell gazed around him and tried to smile, to at least acknowledge the gratitude and fellowship they offered.
The heroes’ celebration lasted all the way to the palace of the former Sultan of Raku, who’d found his death at the hand of the Emir’s personal guard. The Emir’s chief minister was waiting upon the steps of the palace to greet them, an unusual honor, for Prime Minister Rajiid bin Yemen al Basreh was rarely seen in public. Trell knew him to be a mysterious sort of man who spent most of his time in the Akkadian capital of Duan’Bai, where he headed up not only the Emir’s governing cabinet, but also a deadly network of spies and assassins.
Unsurprisingly, al Basreh remained beneath the light of torches and a waning moon only long enough to greet Trell and his men and deliver an astonishing message.
“The Emir is most approving of your service,” he told Trell’s company in the desert tongue as they collected before the massive steps leading up to the outer palace gates. “You men have been
relieved of duty on the Cry. What is next for you, you are no doubt wondering?”
Indeed, they all were, and replied as much.
“So I shall tell you,” al Basreh returned, nodding sagaciously, his dark eyes peering out from the shadow of a gray and black-striped silk turban. “We are at war, my fellows, and much is expected from the Converted; toil and sacrifice, even unto your very lives, but for you…” and here he flashed the shadow of a smile. “For you, heroes all, the choice is yours. You may serve our Su’a’dal wherever you so desire, for such is a hero’s right, to decide where next he shall shed the blood of his enemies.”
They were astonished, and then they cheered.
“Go then,” al Basreh raised his voice to be heard above the din. “Be the master of your fates, and write the next chapter of your lives with fidelity and honor.” He pressed a fist to his heart, and the men, sobered only slightly by his poignant words, did the same.
As the band dispersed then, still humming with surprise, al Basreh descended the steps to greet Trell. If they were not exactly friends—Trell wondered if the older man trusted anyone enough to name them a friend—yet they shared a familiarity and respect between them. “The Emir wants to see you, Trell of the Tides,” al Basreh said in low greeting. “He could not be more proud of a son of his own blood.”
Trell thanked him for relaying the Emir’s appreciation, and asked as they headed up the stairs and through the gates, “What news from the front?”
“A missive from Taj al’Jahanna,” al Basreh replied, his tone revealing no small measure of his own amazement, “and most unanticipated.”
They entered the palace grounds amid vigorous cleaning and mending to repair the ravages of the initial invasion: carpenters and artisans aplenty were hard at work well into the night. Al Basreh kept his voice low as they walked beneath scaffolding and ladders and around clay pots of plaster and paint, while turbaned men rushed to and fro and spoke in hushed tones so as not to disturb their betters. “Radov requests parley,” al Basreh confided once they were away from the industrious workers.
Trell nearly missed a step. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d be certain to think you jesting!” he replied in a fierce whisper. No wonder al Basreh had sounded surprised—it seemed impossible. “Does the Emir think he seeks peace? Surrender?” Prince Radov of M’Nador was an obstinate ox of a man, with a mulish demeanor and generally disagreeable nature. To think he would consider surrender after eight years of war—of which Trell had known only five—was to imagine the Emir suddenly denouncing all his gods and taking up the Blood Art alongside Dheanainn Fhorgs.
“The Emir has a letter from him,” al Basreh replied. “The truth of it is, we have beaten Radov, and he knows it in his bones.”
Trell couldn’t have been more amazed to see cows flying across the Sand Sea—which reminded him, strangely enough, of the Mage and his dragons. Surely they’d played no small role in bringing Radov to his knees. “I suppose the Emir’s Mage will attend the negotiations?” he murmured. “Does the Emir mean for me to attend as well?” Is that why the Emir pulled us from the Cry? For Trell did not believe it was merely to reward them. Awards were given after the war was won, not during its fiercest fighting.
“No. The Mage is attending to other matters, and as for you…” Here he almost smiled again. Twice in one night, it was a record-breaking evening. “For you, Trell of the Tides, the Emir has special plans.”
His Eminence Emir Zafir bin Safwan al Abdul-Basir, Prince of Princes, Unifier of the Seventeen Tribes, rose from behind an ornate desk laden with maps as Trell entered his study. Zafir’s bald head was shining from the heat, which lingered like a disease within the room, making the air heavy and thick though the sun had long fallen to slumber. He opened arms to Trell and embraced him as his guards were closing the massive mahogany doors, but he pulled away again just as quickly and gave Trell a frown of consternation. “You are no longer whole,” he observed. “I sense a cavern of loss within you.”
Standing there before the only father figure he could remember, Trell felt a new fissure of pain slice through his heart. “Holding the Cry has taken its toll,” he admitted. His every exhalation carried the taint of guilt and the ache of loss.
“Naiadithine’s waters are greedy,” the Emir agreed, naming the mother-spirit of the rivers, “and I know that you and Graeme Caufeld were close friends.”
Trell turned his head away to hide the surge of grief and fury that threatened his composure—damn the injustice of Cephrael’s Hand! “It should have been me,” he murmured, staring angrily at nothing. “That arrow was Death’s hand reaching for me, Su’a’dal.”
Zafir placed a strong hand upon Trell’s shoulder. “But Jai’Gar knew it was not your time,” he consoled softly, naming the Prime God, Father of All Fathers. He captured Trell’s gaze with his own dark one. “We will honor Graeme. You have my word.”
Trell simply held his gaze and nodded, for to say anything more would have been too painful.
“Now then,” the Emir banished the subject as he turned to walk back to his desk. “If I know you, you are wondering why I pulled you from the Cry. I suppose al Basreh told you of the parley.”
Trell forced away numbing thoughts of Graeme and gave the Emir his full attention. “A letter from Radov? It’s unbelievable.”
Zafir grunted as he sat down in his red leather chair—the Sultan of Raku’s once, now restyled with painted gold filigree. He spun a piece of parchment toward Trell that he might see the red wax seal upon the bottom. “There it is, imprinted with the infidel’s own signet.” He waved Trell be seated also. “Lest I would have named it a foul hoax.”
Trell took the proffered seat across the desk while frowning thoughtfully at the letter. He could not say if the seal was genuine, having never seen Radov’s personal signet, but he knew who could. “I suppose al Basreh—”
“Oh, indeed,” Zafir interrupted with an offhanded flick of bejeweled fingers. “Al Basreh assigned his spies to investigate, but they uncovered no deception, and the seal is genuine. It seems this parley is legitimate.”
“Then the war could truly end.” Trell said the words like an exhalation, but his tone was rife with disbelief. While trying to imagine what a world without this war would be like, his gaze strayed out the open windows, across the city of Raku and beyond, toward the endless expanse of the Sand Sea.
“Which brings us to you, Trell.”
The Emir’s words brought Trell’s attention back to his leader.
Zafir was watching him steadily, his dark eyes unreadable, but Trell got the distinct impression that something of grave import was transpiring, something beyond a mere assignment of duty. And knowing this with such certainty made him immensely uncomfortable.
Zafir nodded as if to confirm Trell’s suspicions. “The time has come, Trell of the Tides.”
Trell felt a sudden hollowness open in his chest, such apprehension as he’d never experienced, even when facing the field of battle. “Time for what, Su’a’dal?”
Zafir’s round face grew at once solemn. “It is time for you to leave us, my son-of-the-seas.”
It took a moment for Trell to fully comprehend the words, coming as they did on top of such surprises as he had already faced that day. “I…I don’t understand.”
“Trell…” the Emir smiled upon him, but sadness shadowed his gaze. “I know the mystery of your past plagues you. I cannot think of a better means of rewarding you than to set you on your way. Your heritage is your birthright. Seek it now with my blessing.”
“But Su’a’dal…” Every part of him railed against his leader’s pronouncement. “We’re at war.” Surely this was a cruel jest, to send him away when he was most needed.
“You have served me with the fidelity of my own blood-sons,” the Emir proclaimed, and truly, his voice became choked with unexpected emotion. “You have made gains for our cause of which even the gods have taken notice. Though it pains me greatly to see you go, the Wi
nd God Azerjaiman has spoken to me in this, Trell of the Tides. He brought you to me, and he takes you again. This is the desire of Jai’Gar—his wish for you—and I dare not defy His will.”
So came the ending of Trell’s life as he’d known it and the beginning of a new life that would lead him beyond the sands of the Akkad.
He’d kept a sleepless vigil that night upon the walls of Raku, gazing distantly into the starry heavens trying to make sense of events, to find any sort of justification for Graeme’s death and his own good fortune. Yet was it truly fortune that he was being sent away upon the eve of what could be their final victory? To be denied the moment of looking upon the Triad generals knowing that he had beaten them, outmaneuvered them, bested them on the tactical field—him, a nameless one, with no title, no heritage at all to speak of.
Was it fortune to be denied the triumph of seeing Radov on his knees? Trell harbored no real hatred for the Nadori prince, but neither could he respect a man who’d denounced his gods in favor of greed. Trell had made the Emir’s cause his own, and he wanted to see the conflict through to the end. He would’ve stood his ground and argued his case with the Emir, but…
Azerjaiman had spoken…
To his utter chagrin, he could not argue with a god.
Thus did the dawn find Trell setting off with supplies and silver and a small contingent of Converted, leaving with the Emir’s blessing under the guidance of Istalar, who would take him to the shrine to gain divine favor on his journey.
***
Trell exhaled a sigh that touched the silk drapes of the bed. He tried once more to sit up, and this time the dizziness was a minor discomfort. As soon as he felt stable on his feet, he walked to an obsidian basin, poured water from its matching pitcher, and washed his face. Raising his head to the mirror poised above, he regarded himself as if studying a stranger. His hair looked no different after cave-in and river and hours of sleep than it did any other time: a short, tousled jumble of raven waves with the occasional curl thrown in for good measure. The unruly mass had always seemed a strange contrast to his angular face, and the hard months of battle had only increased this disparity.
Cephrael's Hand: A Pattern of Shadow & Light Book One Page 15
